Dresses Are For Girls
by vagueabond
Summary: Arya doesn't want to wear dresses so much as she wants to be a knight. AU, trans!Arya. TW for dysphoria.


**Author's Note:** This is pretty AU, as it's meant to be as if nothing had happened to the Stark family. Nobody dies, Ned goes to be hand to the king, Cersei never launches any plots to kill him, etc. ALL IS WELL, and this is meant to be a few years down the line from the first novel, as Arya is about eleven or twelve. Might make this multi-chapter or...not. Depends how it goes, I guess. With a gender-confused Arya. :I Oh, and disclaimer: if you think that I'm the author of ASOIAF and I'm posting fanfiction of my own novel you're probably fucktarded and should just leave.

Arya Stark stood before the mirror in her bedroom naked as her name day, squinting at herself with a certain discomfort. In recent months, she had begun to notice a more womanly figure coming to her than in her previous years, something which had certainly not shown itself before. She put her hands to her budding breasts, leering at her reflection petulantly. She found this new quality confusing – she had never really minded her body before. She knew, from having been given baths with her brothers in her younger years, that her anatomy did not match theirs...yet it had never really bothered her until here and now, when these small lump shad begun to develop on her chest.

It was all wrong, she thought, trying to flatten them down with her hands. They shouldn't be there, they didn't need to be. They were for _girls_, like Sansa and her friends. For those who enjoyed needlework and manners. Arya did not enjoy needlework nor manners, unless 'needlework' referred to practising with her beloved sword which her brother had given her. Her father had discovered it when they were in King's Landing once, and at first she had been worried that he would taboo the whole operation – but her father was better than that. Eddard Stark had instead encouraged her swordsmanship, much to the distaste of Catelyn and Sansa Stark.

Arya glared and squinted again at her reflection, turning slowly so that she could no longer see the budding lumps. _Damn things._

From down the hall, Arya could hear Sansa squealing for her.

"Arya!"

Feeling a sudden panic, Arya quickly pulled on her clothing, trying to avoid looking at her chest or in the mirror for fear that she would once again catch a glimpse of those peculiar breasts she had begun to develop.

The door flung open just as Arya had laced up her britches; her sister leered at the sight of them, obviously irritated. "You're going to have to dress up," she told her sister. "King Robert's coming to visit again, and he's bringing Joffrey!" Sansa squealed as she voiced the name of her betrothed – they were to be married by next month, and Sansa was over the moon about it.

Arya, on the other hand, could care less.

"Is he bringing Dad with him?" she asked, ignoring Sansa's mention of dressing up entirely. She hadn't seen her father for a couple of months, as he had been in King's Landing acting as the Hand. He came back time and time again to visit with his children and wife, but he spent most of his time in King's Landing, helping King Robert to rule over the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa gave a light scoff. "Is that _all_ you care about?" she asked – though she was equally excited at the prospect of seeing their father. "I don't know that he is," Sansa added afterwards. "He's probably got to stay so that someone's there to watch over King's Landing while the King's away...but maybe the Queen will watch instead?" Sansa shrugged, then returned to her former objective. "You need to dress up," she repeated, crossing her sister's room to her dresser in search of a dress suitable for the presence of kings and princes.

"No I don't," Arya pouted irritably. "Rickon and Bran won't be wearing dresses, why should I?"

Sansa rolled her eyes in response."Idiot, Rickon and Bran are _boys._ I'm sure you've realized that by now."

"It doesn't matter," Arya insisted impatiently. "They still don't have to wear dresses, and I shouldn't neither." Trying to explain this sort of thing to Sansa had forever been hopeless. Ever since she had begun to notice her little sister 'blossoming into a woman', Sansa had immediately took it upon herself to try to convince Arya to wear pretty dresses, and talk about boys.

"Tommen is quite handsome," Sansa had said to her the one day, a sly grin on her face. "You should ask dad if you can marry a handsome prince too, then maybe you could be queen one day!"

"I don't want to be queen," Arya had answered stubbornly. "And I don't want to marry Tommen either."

Not that she had anything against Tommen – he was a nice enough boy, though in their last meeting Arya had beaten him quite easily when they had practised with wooden swords, as Bran had done before his accident.

Sansa ignored her sisters pleas and pulled out a pale blue gown. "There," she said, laying it out on Arya's bed. "I think that'll look lovely."

Arya found herself giving her sister a fractious sort of glare. "I _don't_ want to wear a dress!" she shouted. She didn't want dresses, she didn't want to marry princes, and she certainly didn't want those damned growths on her chest.

"Seven hells, Arya!" Sansa swore, throwing the dress onto the bed and storming out of the room. "I hope you're happy that everyone will see you looking like...like a dirty little commoner...boy!" And with that, Arya's elder sister left the room in a huff.

Arya looked at the dress, all crumpled from her sister's tossing it. A tear formed in her eye...as much as she disliked Sansa sometimes, she didn't mean to upset her sister nearly so much. It was just very unfair that her brother's were allowed to wear whatever was practical to them, and she was forced into _stupid_ dresses, again and again and again.

And if that made her a dirty little commoner boy, than so be it. Arya didn't care, being a boy sounded quite grand. No dresses, no needlework, and certainly no breasts.

With surprising gentleness, Arya picked the dress up from the bed, smoothed it out, and returned it to its proper place. It really was very pretty, she thought. It just wasn't meant for her. It was meant for a younger Sansa, perhaps, or some other girl who enjoyed dresses and other such things. But Arya, Arya did not enjoy dresses.

She left her room, careful to avoid Sansa lest her sister continue to scream at her over her lack of desire to wear dresses, and slipped out of the castle. Down on the grounds, she found her direwolf, Nymeria, playing with her brothers' direwolves, Summer and Shaggydog. Arya grinned at the sight of them, and amused herself for a moment merely watching the three at play.

They darted about, chasing each other and occasionally themselves, trying to catch their own tails. Though they were nearly grown now, they still behaved like puppies. Nymeria bowed low to Summer and then dashed away from him, tail wagging like mad as she did so. Arya giggled, thinking Nymeria's antics to be very entertaining.

After watching them for a few more minutes, she finally decided to continue with what she had planned to do.

"Nymeria!" she called, withdrawing her pet from her playtime.

The massive creature trotted over to her master willingly enough, her tail still wagging gaily in the air as she approached. "Good girl," murmured Arya, giving the wolf a hug and burying her face in Nymeria's fur.

The wolf seemed to sense that something was wrong, and she gave Arya a light lick on her ear, which sent the youngster into a tizzy of giggles. "Ny_meria_!" she insisted, trying to shove the direwolf away but failing miserably.

"Come on," she told the wolf after a moment's more of frenzied licks. The direwolf followed her eagerly into the woods, and soon they sat together alone, distanced from the people of Winterfell and from Arya's numerous siblings. Arya picked up a stick, examined it for a moment, and then flung it, watching Nymeria eagerly chase and retrieve it. "Good girl," she muttered, ruffling the direwolf's fur.

She had to figure out a good way to get away from Sansa's silly obsession with dresses, Arya decided. There had to be a way to prove to her sister that she had no need for dresses, no more than Bran or Rickon. Or – Arya giggled quietly at the mental image – her father. And if there was one person Arya admired in all of Westeros, more than Sansa, more than Catelyn, more than Syrio – it was her father. Lord Eddard Stark was extremely admirable on Arya's eyes. He was honorable, strong, and had been in a number of combats throughout his life. She aimed to be like him when she grew up, though she didn't see how she could grow a beard.

Or, and her mood dropped the second she thought about it, be a great knight or lord with these developments on her chest?

Nymeria whined beside her, shoving the stick under her master's forearm.

Arya looked at the direwolf. "Direwolves don't have to wear dresses," she said flatly. "Although I don't suppose you're allowed to be a knight either."

Arya ground her teeth irritably; this whole thing was annoying her. She wanted to be a knight, she wanted to be free of dresses, of needlework, of breasts. But right now, she didn't quite see how that was going to work out.


End file.
